


46

by danielmorgans



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielmorgans/pseuds/danielmorgans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of one shots and unfinished fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. приходят домой

**Author's Note:**

> i started a lot of les mis stories that will never see their end but they were okay enough that i don't want them to just take up space in a folder so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> e/R political thriller.

R’s got a million questions pressing against the back of his teeth, but he bites down on them, crushes them to dust and swallows, feels them prickle as they slid down his throat. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t care about anything beyond a name, face and coordinates. He has a timeline to follow. He takes the brown folder that is slid across the table and smiles, watches the men in suits trying to hide their flinches, and stands with a lazy salute. No one can ever quite meet his eyes. Not when they know what he has hidden underneath his tailored suit jacket. Not when none of them know his real name. Or where he came from.

R would forget too if there wasn’t a slip every so often, clipped and careful words giving way to rounded vowels and harsh consonants, falling slow and steady from his mouth. He’s fluent in Russian because he has to be, but he thinks it was always easier, his tongue curled around the words with an ease that hadn’t been there when he learned Arabic, French, Spanish or any of the other languages hiding behind his smile.

Sometimes, he thinks he remembers a bone deep cold and the comforting whisper of _Мальчик мой_ , but he also remembers searing heat, the chatter of busy streets and colours so bright they were blinding. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter, because R has hundreds of faces, hundreds of names, and he can never keep track of them, barely remembers who he’s playing anymore.

So he bears his teeth in something that’s never quite a smile at every agent that crosses his path and laughs when they flinch away, they always do.

Until _he_ comes along. Agent Enjolras who leans in closer, tries to see what he’s hiding behind his teeth, has never once pointed a gun at him and R thinks he could be different, could be _something_ , but that isn’t the mission.

Except, R, he’s never been all that good with rules. Even the one’s in place to keep him alive.

Especially those ones.

 

 **  
  
  
** He wakes up in a warehouse, tied to a chair with a bullet in his left side. **  
**

“Name.” They demand, accents thick and rough, eastern European, and it almost sounds like home. He spits out a mouthful of blood and tries to blink away the haze over his eyes, but they’re wearing masks, much more careful than R was, walking down the streets of Paris with sights on his back and the bruises from _his_ handcuffs still fresh around his wrists.

“Розенберг.” He says around a grin, around the blood and missing teeth, lets it drip slow and steady from his mouth, and the quick punch to his stomach isn’t a surprise, just pulls more laughter from his wrecked throat.

“Я американский гражданин.” He says, again and again, grin pulling his split lips apart, except, he isn’t, is he.

**  
  
  
**

“It’s me,” _he_ says, smiles, but it fractures, splits down the middle and the lies come pouring out, red and white and blue, staining the cement floor at their feet, “it’s me.”

  
R raises his gun, aims and.


	2. R U Mine?

**courf/R, rock band au**

* * *

 

"Shut up," Grantaire says, and bites down on Courfeyrac’s bottom lip, a little too hard, a little too drunk, but Courfeyrac arches into it anyway and their bodies press together in all the right ways.

And this might be nothing more than a quick fuck in a dirty bathroom stall, than Grantaire on his knees ten minutes before a show, than Courfeyrac’s smirking lips marking whatever part of Grantaire he can- but it feels so _good_ , so mind-numbingly good, except.

“ _Shut up_.” He bites out, and pushes his thigh in between Courfeyrac’s leg, but Enjolras keeps singing, his voice carrying from the practice space and echoing in Grantaire’s head, even as Courfeyrac is moaning his name.

 

 

**part of the lower you fall, the higher you'll fly**

* * *

 

Grantaire spits a mouthful of blood into the sink and raises his eyes to meet Bahorel’s in the mirror.

"What?" He asks, cocks an eyebrow, tugs his tie loose. "Never seen blood before, Sergeant?"

Bahorel shrugs, face blank, says, “Thought you’d bleed blue.”

Grantaire doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing, so he laughs instead, bares his teeth, bares his throat, remembers how his father used to sound before Washington, before suits and cuff links and carefully practiced soundbites.

"I’m a patriot, son." He says, his father says. "My blood is red as yours."

Bahorel laughs, head tipped back, and Grantaire swallows a mouthful of blood.

 

 

**prince au**

* * *

"I’m not a good person," he says through a smirk, through an alcohol induced slur, so Enjolras nods, smiles, and then he walks away.

He’ll regret that, later. 

 

"Treason," Grantaire says, prowling across the floor, shoulders hunched and frown set firmly upon his lips. "Treason," he repeats, and turns to face his audience, "The murder of Our King, of my father." Judge, jury, prince- no, King. It’s something, to watch the drunkard hold court as though he was born for it, and, well, he was.

"What do we do with traitors?"

The roar of the crowd is damning.

 

He lounges, legs sprawled wide and the crown sitting crooked on his head, and Enjolras tastes blood on his tongue, spits it on the palace floor, doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t smile, and this time he doesn’t get to walk away. 

 

 

**hockey au**

* * *

Enjolras rushes forward, eyes following Grantaire, who’s to his left, as he comes to a sudden stop and slides the puck to the side, under the legs of a defender. A perfect pass, and Enjolras catches it, takes the shot and watches the puck slide cleanly past the goalie and into the net.

He pumps his fist in the air, skating around the back of the net before a body slams into his, hollering into his ear, but he’s too happy to really care, so he wraps his arms around Grantaire and skates them right into the boards.

"Guys," someone shouts, voice tinged with humour, "you realize we’re at _practice_.”

They pull away from each other, still grinning, and Enjolras taps Grantaire’s helmet with his stick, gets Grantaire’s fist knocking against the ‘C’ on his jersey before he skates towards the rest of the guys, saying, “fuck you, you’re just jealous we’re kicking your asses with our superior skills.”

Enjolras laughs quietly, shakes his head to the shout of “we’re on the _same team_!” and skates back towards centre ice to get things back under control.

 

 

**another prince au**

* * *

 

"So," Grantaire says, fits a cigarette in between his teeth and smirks, "I hear you’re the one trying to dismantle my throne. I’ve come to ask you to let me keep the crown. I’m quite fond of it."

The boy, young and bright and angry; whispers on the street and a warning in the palace, tenses, fury unfurling through his limbs as he raises his head, and something rushes down Grantaire’s spine and wraps around his ribs. _Dangerous_ , he thinks, and lights his cigarette.

"Or," he questions as he settles himself into an empty seat, grinning at everyone sitting at the table before he turns back to the boy, "are you the ones who want my head impaled on palace grounds, Enjolras?" He pauses and curls his tongue as he breaths out a puff of smoke. "It is Enjolras, isn’t it?" 

 

 

**bahorel/feuilly hawaii five-0 au**

* * *

 

It’s Feuilly’s first day off in three weeks when someone decides to blow up the Governor’s office. It’s just his luck that he happens to be standing in the front lobby when it happens.

The blast knocks him right off his feet and slams him back against the security desk, his side taking the majority of the impact, and although it’s nothing more than a dull twinge now, he knows from experience (experience he would not have were his partner not a complete and utter _psycho_ ) that it’ll become sharp and burning as soon as the adrenaline leaves his system. That isn’t now, however, so he forces himself to stand on unsteady feet, hand immediately reaching for the gun that isn’t there, that he had left at home because it’s his day off and back home that usually meant things not exploding. You’d think he’d have learned by now that Hawaii is not like Jersey in any way.

He mutters a soft curse that doesn’t make it past the ringing in his ears and pushes forward through the smoke and rubble, keeping his eyes open and trying to remember if there had been anyone in the lobby with him. He makes about fifteen steps before bullets start coming right at his face, and seriously, fuck his life and this pineapple infested hellhole of an island.

He ducks behind a pillar, trying to shake the ringing in his ears so he can at least figure out who’s trying to kill him, but shaking his head just makes him feel faint and has his vision blurring. The sharp smell of burn doesn’t help either, clogging up his airways and making it hard to pull in a steadying breath. He tries to get his phone out of his pocket, but his hands won’t respond to any demands, holding weakly at his side that is quickly starting to feel a lot worse with every too shallow breath, and God, if he dies Bahorel will never let him hear the end of it, exclaiming proudly how he could have taken the gunmen out with a paperclip and a telephone cord. 

 

 

**e/R attempt to buy furniture at ikea au**

* * *

 

"What are you doing?" Grantaire asks, coming up behind Enjolras, who is staring at a very nice wooden desk that is very much not on their list of Shit To Buy. “We need a bed. Not more space for you to plot world domination.”

Enjolras tenses, almost like clockwork, and Grantaire has to bite down on his smile when Enjolras whirls round to glare at him, crossing his arms, and just looking, well, fucking adorable, really.

"World _liberation_ , Grantaire, you-“

"Can recite this particular lecture in my sleep. Which I promise to prove when you provide me with somewhere to sleep. You know, I thought dating some hotshot lawyer would provide me with ridiculous luxuries, not leave me without a bed. Or food. I’d be better off dating Courfeyrac if this is the case, and-"

"Courfeyrac can’t do the thing with his tongue."

Grantaire pauses, looking Enjolras up and down. “True, but I could always teach him, it’s not that-“

"I meant the other thing."

"Oh."

Enjolras smiles, all sharp teeth and smugness, his ‘I-just-won-this-case’/’I-just-blew-your-brains-out’ smile, which Grantaire both loves and hates, mostly loves if he’s being honest. They’re still not getting a desk.

"We’re not getting a desk. Think of all the things we could do with a bed. A big bed, with a good mattress And hey, we could get a frame with bars or something, finally try out the handcuffs Feuilly got us." Grantaire slots his front aganist Enjolras’ back, slipping his arms around his waist and pressing his grin into Enjolras’ neck.

"You could bend me over the desk," Enjolras starts, voice steady and Grantaire freezes, "open me up, wait until I’m begging for it and then fuck me long and slow. Press me down and distract me. Make me stop working for a while."

Grantaire has to swallow down his groan, fingers flexing on Enjolras’ hips. He can practically feel Enjolras’ smirk, the fucker.

"Buy the fucking desk. I’m going to go drown myself in one of the display showers." He slinks away, willing his hard-on away, and wondering when this became his life.

"Pick out a bed while you’re there! Maybe sure the headboard has bars." Enjolras calls to his retreating back. Grantaire has to flop down on a sofa and shove a pillow over his face to smoother his pained laughter.

 

 


	3. come to burn your kingdom down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> e/R as Apollo and Dionysus

The world crumbles and he watches, smiles and relishes, because more and more they dedicate themselves to him, drowning themselves in wine, whispering age old prayers under their breath.

( _I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Help me. Fuck you._ )

This century, this age of discord and destruction, it’s his, it’s every part of him. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he ever promised the Golden Boy.

‘These people’, he drawls, draped lazily across the motel bed, sweat still cooling on his skin, ‘they are killing themselves, each other, their planet, without even blinking. They murder. They are cruel. They do not care for anything. You cannot save them.’

(He never speaks of those who turn from his altar, who fight back, who do not deserve to die for the mistakes of the greedy.)

Apollo surges forward, light bleeding through his skin from the inside out, the seams of his form barely holding together, sparks flying from his tongue with every word. He is anger and terror and wrath wrapped in charming smiles and promising words. He plays the mortal, the leader, the messiah, and delivers souls to Hades with a heavy heart.

The world crumbles and he watches, swallows around the lump in his throat, because Apollo burns brighter every day, the sun moving nearer everyday, the destruction of the people he wants to save at his own unwilling hands.

This is how a star dies.


	4. if we close our eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reincarnation au.

Enjolras gets up at six am every morning and runs until his lungs burn. He follows the same path; skirts around the edge of campus, through the park, down by the river and then runs it back to his apartment. He keeps his key in his right shoe and plays his music loud enough to hurt.

He wears Grantaire’s UCLA shirt and pretends its his own, pretends that there’s no end and no beginning and nothing but his heart beating double time in his chest. He pretends his leg doesn’t burn when he pushes himself that much further and he never limps, never, even though sometimes it hurts so much that white spots dance in front of his eyes.

His apartment is small and impersonal and feels half empty even after four months. When he slides his key into the lock, there’s a beat, a moment when he thinks he’ll open to the door to music and a quiet laugh and pages scattered across his floor, and his heart lurches painfully in his chest. But then he turns the key and it’s dark and cold and empty and Enjolras has to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

When it gets too quiet he recites the Iliad out loud and thinks of the never ending fire of guns and shouts of freedom.

 


End file.
